For there are many unruly and vain talkers and deceivers, specially they of the circumcision: Whose mouths must be stopped, who subvert whole houses, teaching things which they ought not, for filthy lucre’s sake. . . . Wherefore rebuke them sharply, that they may be sound in the faith; Not giving heed to Jewish fables, and commandments of men, that turn from the truth.
Following Paul's lead, conditioned by his biases and the prejudices of a Christian nation, our parents helped pass along, or allowed to be passed along, part and parcel with their conservative stability, a subtle racism. I had to confront this again a few weeks ago, waiting at a streetlight. Around the corner came a car with a black male driver and a white female passenger sitting intimately close to him. My stomach turned.
A bowl of nuts for the holiday season: hazelnuts, peanuts, walnuts, pistachios, pecans, and nigger toes. That’s what I grew up calling them.
Standing next to the east goal post of the football field at Hermosa Jr. High, a fellow seventh-grader gleefully and perhaps maliciously informed me there were creatures in the world called “homaphrodites.” Incredulous, yet believing, I instinctively acted to brace up my crumbling world, erecting the first, but not last, phobic pillars to protect me from those hitherto unknown, still faceless, but now named “homos.”
Dad taught science and math at the junior-high school before he became principal. As a science teacher he had access to mercury and to our delight he brought home plastic vials of it. We split it into quivering masses with our fingers and raced heavy blobs down inclines. Dimes, when rubbed with mercury, glistened like new silver.
BOCA RATON, Fla. (AP) --
Drips and drabs of silvery mercury led officials to about 3 pounds of mercury sitting in a dorm room at Florida Atlantic University, forcing the evacuation of 187 students. The toxic metallic element, which attacks the lungs and central nervous system, was in a bottle labeled “mercury” with a hand-drawn skull and crossbones.
Families can be toxic with the best of intentions. A threatening letter written during an election in which another Romney was running for President of the United States gives ample context for my own family's religiously based racism (see inserts).
 |
| [from the Boston Globe] |
Not long after Stapley warned George Romney not to mess with the racial order set up by God, these notes from an experience at BYU, 1968:
A cold night. January or February. I stand with friends outside Brigham Young University’s “Smith Family Living Center.” Students are dancing inside the plate-glass windows. A young black man approaches, looks into the building, moves on.
I know him, someone claims. He’s LDS. Must be lonely. Can’t hold the priesthood. Can’t marry in the temple. Seed of Cain. Curse of Ham.
We enter the Family Living Center, join the dancers. His testimony of the true gospel, I think, commits him to a difficult life now; but in the eternities. . . . My mind skids to the warm, firm thighs of the tall girl from Idaho who is holding me as close as I her.
And another set of notes:
Rodney Barker’s book, The Broken Circle, about the murders and civil unrest in my home town, Farmington, New Mexico, takes me back to additional origins of my racism. Most surprising is a 1975 Civil Rights Commission assessment of the events following the torture and murder of several Navajo men by boys in my high school.
There were large demonstrations against anglo insensitivity to the case, a case that resulted in the killers being sent to reform school till they turned eighteen.
The Mayor of Farmington in 1974, just a few months in office when the marches
began, was also the LDS Stake President. He was a family friend. He did what he could to manage the situation. He held meetings
with the protestors. He tried to explain that the three boys didn’t represent
the rest of Farmington’s Anglo population. Their abbreviated sentences to juvenal reform school were not
evidence of racism, but products of technicalities of the law.
The Mayor could not understand why
the Navajos were so riled up. To understand, he would have had to oppose the
society he represented, the culture that had made him. That made me.
When “The Farmington Report” finally
appeared, concluding that investigators had found ample evidence of racism,
discrimination, and brutality against Navajos, Mayor Webb’s frustration was
manifest:
This is a typical example of how the
ever-growing cancer of bureaucracy is dominating and directing our country and
the lives of its citizens. . . . This commission would appear to want to drag
each of us down to the level of the lowest common denominator and obviously is
advancing the cause of socialism in this country. They advocate that government
fill all of the needs of the individual rather than achievement through
individual effort. This would be impossible to finance and completely contrary
to the American way of life, and the greatness achieved through the free
enterprise system and self-achievement of the individual.
Sterling Black, chairman of the Advisory Committee, responded
with frustrations of his own:
There appears to be little awareness
on the part of the general population or elected public officials of the
complex social and economic problems. . . . Navajos are aware of the
indignities and injustices, and want something done to better the situation. .
. . [Unfortunately, they hear only that] there are no problems existing, people
in this town get along very well with each other, there are no indignities,
there are no injustices, and there is nothing to be done to remedy these
complaints.
Some Final Thoughts:
My years in high school and at BYU during the sixties and early seventies were sheltered years flavored by an unrelenting political conservatism. In that world, the civil rights movement was a Communist front. William Dibble, a decent Mormon painter, began to dabble in abstraction sometime about mid-century. The Dean of Fine Arts at BYU thought it prudent to warn him: Bill, you are flirting with apostasy and are on the brink of Communism.
Some Final Thoughts:
My years in high school and at BYU during the sixties and early seventies were sheltered years flavored by an unrelenting political conservatism. In that world, the civil rights movement was a Communist front. William Dibble, a decent Mormon painter, began to dabble in abstraction sometime about mid-century. The Dean of Fine Arts at BYU thought it prudent to warn him: Bill, you are flirting with apostasy and are on the brink of Communism.
